Answer Me This
by WeAreTomorrow
Summary: REPOSTED. It has to do with the way he says your name. Slowly, as if tasting it. Peter/Neal. Slash.
1. Chapter 1

answer me this because it's out of the question (_let's do it anyway_)

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><p>It's something about the way he says, <em>Peter<em>, slowly like he's tasting it.

Slowly like he knows what it does to you (_pray that he doesn't, he has enough of you already_).

_Peter_, like he knows you. Like he owns you.

And sometimes when you're lying awake next to your wife (_who's beautiful and charming and almost everything but not really quite_) it's like he cares about you.

But that path leads nowhere. Nowhere you want to go because (_the way to hell is paved with good intentions and_)you swear that you only signed the paperwork because of your job. You swear it.

Why don't you believe yourself?

It's something about the way that he flirts with everyone he meets, and all you can do is grit your teeth and count to ten (_in French because you're an idiot, that's why_). It's worse when it's a guy.

When the guy flirts back.

Because you can't pretend (_what a stupid word, with it's implications_) to intervene to save the poor girl's virtue. Because if you squint just the right way, it's you and him and you know all about those damn _good intentions_.

They lead to you and him and (_the way he looks when he copies your signature_).

It's something about the way he looks when he's sitting in your chair, grinning _like that _with his eyes bright and blue and looking at you _like that_.

Looking and seeing and all _Peter_ like you belong to him.

And he looks at you (_intense like there's nothing else_) and you look back (_because there isn't_). _Peter_, like you're supposed to be his when the only thought running through your mind is-

_Mine_.

It's a game, a game that you never stopped playing but the stakes are higher now like this (_close quarter and too close to home and help, the boundaries are blurring_) and you think you're losing because you're the one looking up at the ceiling like it'll hold the answers you so desperately need.

Need and want and consequences (_all mixed together in a sigh and the ceiling doesn't know what to do either_) and always, always the laws of physics.

Every action has a reaction and every _Peter_ is a little closer to breaking point.

You know his shoe size and his favorite ice cream flavor and that he hates spiders but he hates snakes more and that when he was little he wanted to be an astronaut. You know that he plays Mozart in the morning sometimes with his eyes closed, perfect like he does everything apparently. You know his mother played piano and when he really misses her he'll play something that's a little bit of sadness and anger and longing. You know what he looks like when he's about to crack and tell you everything before lying at the last moment. You know how much it hurts.

But… (_you don't know what he tastes like_.)

It has to do with those hands of his. And those lips. And those eyes. And… he could go on. But it really, really, really comes down to this.

Those eyes are looking (_and seeing and begging_) at you.

Those lips are parting (_and swollen and red_) for you.

Those hands are handcuffed and he's not going anywhere, not now, maybe not ever because you have questions, endless question and (_you don't care about the consequences_).

_Peter_, like it's an answer.


	2. Chapter 2

So. The new season.  
>That is all.<p>

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><p><strong>answer me this because it's out of the question (<em>let's do it anyway<em>)**

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><p>It's something about the way he says <em>Peter<em>, slowly, like he's tasting it.

Slowly, like he knows what it does to you.

_Peter_, like he means it.

As if, when you snap cold metal around his wrists for the very first time, that it's not him losing. It's been a long game, finally won, but the upward tug of lips when his blue eyes meet yours in the mirror takes the sweetness out of victory somehow.

Three weeks later, the new cases still won't hold your attention.

You put a criminal behind bars. The world is a safer place but the reminder tastes bitter when you swallow it down with cheap beer and the memory of your name and his hands brushing yours.

It's a memory that never quite fades and later, when you uncuff him for the first time too, fingertips touching, you think that it feels better, more natural.

He turns without really stepping back and when he says _Peter_, it's almost pressed against skin. You think it might have left marks anyway.

Another three weeks and there's not a single solved crime you can't remember the crisp details of.

"Hello," Neal greets you like a stranger, shaking hands politely, "Nice to meet you, Mister Carlton."

But all you can hear is _Peter_ and your hand tightens around his before you pull away.

"Pleasure's mine," You say and he smiles.

If you get terribly, ridiculously drunk that night it's because the baseball game was an embarrassment and Eli is out of town. You've always hated sleeping in an empty house so it's no surprise that you wake up on Neal's coach.

Still, you can't remember most of last night and when you wake up first and look in the mirror you can't meet your own eyes, so you leave.

It feels dirty and cowardly and Neal wears a scarf to work for two days straight and won't meet your eyes either. It hurts but you're grateful too, scared little boy grateful.

You don't want answers.

"Yes or no?" Neal asks, arms crossed, talking about the plan.

It's not a good plan. You sigh, wishing you had slept last night.

"No is only yes to something else," You say without thinking and tense.

There is something in Neal's smile that reminds you of the first time, only there is no game here, no losers and certainly no winners. There is only the uncomfortable feeling in your stomach that is not entirely unpleasant.

But that path leads nowhere, paved with good intentions and the paperwork you signed because of your job, only your job.

The red light of your alarm clock mocks you, ticking closer to morning.

Why don't you believe yourself?

Eli is curled against you like a little girl, face smooth and untroubled and you have the urge to lean over and kiss her forehead. You think about it for a long time; eventually she rolls over and the moment is gone.

You look up at the ceiling but it doesn't have the answers either.

It's something about the way that he flirts with everyone he meets, and all you can do is grit your teeth and count to ten. It's something about the way he looks when he's sitting in your chair, grinning with his eyes bright and blue and waiting for your reaction.

Looking and seeing and all_ Peter_, like you belong to him.

And he looks at you, intense like there's nothing else, and you look back, because there isn't. _Peter_, like this is his game with his puppet strings when he's the one with the collar on.

But those thoughts never get far, no farther then the tip of your tongue. Because those thoughts only lead to you and him and way he looks when he copies your signature.

(_Mine_.)

It's a game.

It's a game that you never stopped playing but the stakes are higher now, like this, close quarter and too close to home, and you think you're losing because it's four in the morning now and the ceiling still doesn't have the answers you so desperately need.

It's need and want and consequences, the one where Eli tenses when you touch, and always, always the laws of physics.

Every action has a reaction and every _Peter_ is a little closer to breaking point.

You know his shoe size and his favorite candy bar and that when he was little he wanted to be an astronaut. You know that he plays Mozart in the morning sometimes with his eyes closed, perfectly, even though he can't read music, not nearly well enough.

You know what he looks like when he's about to crack and tell you everything before lying at the last moment. You know how much it hurts.

But… (_you don't know what he tastes like._)

It has to do with those hands of his, the fingers as they slide against piano keys and across the back of your hand. And those lips, he bites them when he's thinking, but only if he knows you're watching.

And those eyes, the ones that get so very, terrifyingly dark sometimes.

It's all of that.

But what breaks you, what makes you reach out blindly, without thinking, is your name. Whispered, hopeful and trusting. Like a prayer, like a reason.

Those eyes are looking (_and seeing and begging_) for you.

Those lips are parting (_and swollen and red_) for you.

Those hands are handcuffed and he's not going anywhere, not now, maybe not ever because you have questions, endless question and (_you don't care about the consequences_).

_Peter_, like it's an answer.


End file.
